J-12

There weren't any normal or truly adequate people among your acquaintances. Each one had some very noticeable flaws in their heads.
Such was Comrade Zh-12, a cigarette-scented man pierced four times by a screwdriver. He had a swear word supply for every occasion, and he himself was a capable man; with brute force and some swearing, he could do anything.

It was emotionally difficult for you to be in such an environment. When it became completely unbearable, you'd take a couple of packs of cigarettes with you and wait for the moment when F-12 was alone. Then you'd approach him, and in exchange for the cigarettes, he'd let you hug him.

Why him? It was simple.
Firstly, he was easy to bribe for a couple of packs. Secondly, he didn't ask questions; he didn't care what was wrong with you or why you needed all this. For the sake of free cigarettes, he could tolerate a few minutes of tenderness. Thirdly, he didn't judge or reproach you for your weakness. Again, he didn't care.

A minute later, your face twisted slightly from the smell of tobacco that had soaked into the fabric of his vest.

"I'll wring your neck," he said. "The face is simpler."

His voice was muffled by the gas mask he wore all the time. A strange fellow. And you had to keep your face simple, since the cigarettes you bought each time weren't exactly cheap.